A Gentleman in Moscow

Adulthood

Are you ready?” asked Marina.

The Count and Anna, who were sitting side by side on the couch in the actress’s suite, answered in the affirmative.

With a fitting sense of ceremony, Marina opened the bedroom door to reveal Sofia.

The dress that the seamstress had fashioned for the concert was a long-sleeved gown in the trumpet style—fitted above the waist and flared below the knee. The blue of the fabric, which recalled the depths of the ocean, provided an otherworldly contrast to the fairness of Sofia’s skin and the blackness of her hair.

Anna let out a gasp.

Marina beamed.

And the Count?

Alexander Rostov was neither scientist nor sage; but at the age of sixty-four he was wise enough to know that life does not proceed by leaps and bounds. It unfolds. At any given moment, it is the manifestation of a thousand transitions. Our faculties wax and wane, our experiences accumulate, and our opinions evolve—if not glacially, then at least gradually. Such that the events of an average day are as likely to transform who we are as a pinch of pepper is to transform a stew. And yet, for the Count, when the doors to Anna’s bedroom opened and Sofia stepped forward in her gown, at that very moment she crossed the threshold into adulthood. On one side of that divide was a girl of five or ten or twenty with a quiet demeanor and a whimsical imagination who relied upon him for companionship and counsel; while on the other side was a young woman of discernment and grace who need rely on no one but herself.

“Well? What do you think?” asked Sofia shyly.

“I’m speechless,” said the Count with unabashed pride.

“You look magnificent,” said Anna.

“Doesn’t she, though?” said Marina.

Gay with the compliments and the sound of Anna’s applause, Sofia spun once on her feet.

And that is when the Count discovered, to his utter disbelief, that there was no back to the dress. The taffeta (which had been purchased by the bolt, mind you) fell away from her shoulders in a vertiginous parabola that reached its nadir at the base of Sofia’s spine.

The Count turned upon Anna.

“I suppose this was your doing!”

The actress stopped clapping.

“What was my doing?”

He waved his hand in Sofia’s direction.

“This dressless dress. No doubt it was drawn from one of your convenient magazines.”

Before Anna could respond, Marina stomped her foot.

“This was my doing!”

Startled by the seamstress’s tone, the Count saw with some trepidation that while one of her eyes had rolled toward the ceiling in exasperation, the other was bearing down on him like a cannonball.

“It is a dress of my design,” she said, “fashioned from my handiwork for my Sofia.”

Recognizing that he may have unintentionally insulted an artist, the Count adopted a more conciliatory tone.

“It is unquestionably a beautiful dress, Marina. One of the finest I have ever seen; and I have seen many fine dresses in my time.” Here the Count gave an awkward little laugh in the hopes of clearing the air and then continued in a tone of fellowship and common sense. “But after months of preparation, Sofia will be performing Rachmaninov at the Palais Garnier. Wouldn’t it be a pity if, instead of listening to her play, the audience was staring at her back?”

“Perhaps we should drape her in sackcloth,” suggested the seamstress. “To ensure that the audience is not distracted.”

“I would never counsel sackcloth,” protested the Count. “But there is such a thing as moderation, even within the bounds of glamour.”

Marina stomped her foot again.

“Enough! We have no interest in your scruples, Alexander Ilyich. Just because you witnessed the Comet of 1812, does not mean that Sofia must wear a petticoat and bustle.”

The Count began to object, but Anna intervened.

“Perhaps we should hear what Sofia has to say.”

They all looked to Sofia who, oblivious to the course of the debate, was admiring herself in the mirror. She turned and took Marina’s hands.

“I think it’s splendid.”

Marina looked at the Count in triumph; then turning back to Sofia, she tilted her head and studied her handiwork with a more critical eye.

“What is it?” asked Anna, taking up a position beside the seamstress.

“It needs something. . . .”

“A cape?” muttered the Count.

All three women ignored him.

“I know,” Anna said after a moment. Slipping into her bedroom, she returned with a choker that had a sapphire pendant. She handed it to Marina, who fastened it around Sofia’s neck, then the two older women stepped back.

“Perfect,” they agreed.

“Is it true?” asked Anna, as she and the Count walked down the hallway after the fitting.

“Is what true?”

“Did you really see the Comet of 1812?”

The Count harrumphed.

“Just because I am a man of decorum does not mean that I am stodgy.”

Anna smiled.

“You do realize that you just harrumphed.”

“Maybe so. But I am still her father. What would you have me do? Abdicate my responsibilities?”

“Abdicate!” replied Anna with a laugh. “Certainly not, Your Highness.”

The two had reached the point in the hallway where the door to the service stair was hidden in plain sight. Stopping, the Count turned to Anna with the smile of the artificially polite.

“It is time for the Boyarsky’s daily meeting. As a result, I am afraid that I must now bid you adieu.” Then with a nod the Count disappeared behind the door.

Once he was descending the stairs, he felt a sense of relief. With its precise geometry and pervading silence, the belfry was much like a chapel or reading room—a place designed to provide one with solitude and respite. That is, until the door opened and Anna stepped onto the landing.

In a state of disbelief, the Count remounted the stairs.

“What are you doing?” he whispered.

“I need to go to the lobby,” she replied. “I thought I’d keep you company on the way down.”

“You can’t keep me company. This is the service stair!”

“But I am a guest in the hotel.”

“That is my point exactly. The service stair is reserved for those who serve. Right down the hallway is a glamorous staircase reserved for the glamorous.”

Anna smiled and took a step toward the Count.

“What’s gotten your goat?”

“Nothing has gotten my goat. My goat is not gotten.”

“I suppose it’s understandable,” she continued philosophically. “A father is bound to be a little unnerved by the discovery that his daughter has become a beautiful young woman.”

“I was not unnerved,” the Count said, taking a step back. “My only point was that the back of the dress did not have to be cut quite as low.”

“You must admit that her back is lovely.”

“That may be so. But the world needn’t be presented with every single one of her vertebrae.”

Anna took another step forward.

“You have often admired my vertebrae. . . .”

“That’s something else entirely.” The Count tried to take another step back, but came up against the wall.

“I’ll give you the Comet of 1812,” Anna said.

“Shall we begin?”

This shockingly straightforward question came from none other than the man who ate, drank, and slept on the bias.

With a grunt, Emile slid his menu across the desk.

The Count and Andrey shifted in their chairs.

Having begun attending the Boyarsky’s daily meeting in the summer of 1953, in April of 1954 the Bishop had switched the venue from Emile’s office to his own, on the grounds that the activity in the kitchen was proving a distraction. To accommodate the members of the Triumvirate, the manager had three French chairs lined up in front of his desk. The chairs had such delicate proportions one could only assume that they had originally been designed for handmaidens in the court of Louis XIV. Which is to say, it was virtually impossible for grown men to sit in them at ease, especially when tucked in a tight little row. The general effect was to make the Boyarsky’s maître d’, chef, and headwaiter feel like schoolboys called before their principal.

Accepting the menu, the Bishop squared it with the edge of his desk. Then with the tip of his pencil he reviewed each item in the manner of a banker double-checking the sums of his apprentice.

Naturally enough, in the interim the three schoolboys found themselves looking about. If only the walls had been decorated with maps of the world or a periodic table, they could have made fruitful use of the time—by imagining they were Columbus crossing the Atlantic or an alchemist in ancient Alexandria. With only the portraits of Stalin, Lenin, and Marx to consider, the three men had no choice but to fidget.

When the Bishop had edited Emile’s menu and returned it to the chef, with a sniff he turned to Andrey, who dutifully delivered the Book. As usual, the Bishop opened to the beginning and the Triumvirate watched in mute exasperation as he turned through the pages until he finally reached the last night of May.

“Here we are,” he said.

Again, the tip of the banker’s pencil moved from entry to entry, column by column, row by row. The Bishop provided Andrey with seating instructions for the night and set down his pencil.

Sensing the meeting was about to end, the members of the Triumvirate moved to the edge of their chairs. But rather than close the Book, the Bishop suddenly flipped ahead to survey the upcoming weeks. After turning a few pages, he paused.

“How are preparations coming for the combined dinner of the Presidium and the Council of Ministers . . . ?”

Andrey cleared his throat.

“All is in order. At official request, the dinner is to be held not in the Red Room but in suite 417, which Arkady has arranged to be free; Emile has just finalized the menu; and Alexander, who will be overseeing the dinner, has been working closely with comrade Propp, our liaison from the Kremlin, to ensure the evening runs smoothly.”

The Bishop looked up from the Book.

“Given the importance of the event, shouldn’t you be overseeing it personally, Maître d’ Duras?”

“It was my intention to stay in the Boyarsky, as usual. But I could certainly attend to the dinner, if you thought that preferable.”

“Excellent,” said the Bishop. “Then Headwaiter Rostov can stay at the restaurant to ensure that all goes accordingly there.”

As the Bishop closed the Book, the Count went cold.

The dinner for the Presidium and Council of Ministers was tailor made to his intentions. He could not conceive of a better occasion. But even if there were one, with just sixteen days until the Conservatory’s tour, the Count was simply out of time.

The Bishop slid the Book back across his desk and the meeting was concluded.

As usual, the members of the Triumvirate walked from the principal’s office to the stairwell in silence. But at the landing, when Emile began climbing the stairs to the second floor, the Count took Andrey by the sleeve.

“Andrey, my friend,” he said under his breath. “Can you spare a moment . . . ?”